Growing Up Venatori

I was born to a human mother and if life had been fair that would have been the end of my tormented life. I could have died at birth, or anytime before that. But I was blessed with the magic of the dragons. I was Magnus. And my magic sustained both my mother and myself through pregnancy and labor. The probability of such a thing happening is less than 1 percent. Less than one percent probably that a human would would survive the birth of her Venatori child. Even therians have a better probablitly of that happening.

You ask what makes a human and Venatori incompatible. I could tell you about the genetic differences in our bodies, or the foreign proteins we have. But honestly I don’t understand it. It’s scientific gobbly-gook to me.

But my life didn’t end then. And neither did my mothers. I lived to see my current age. I survive my first touch of the elements. I survived to have my mother call me a monster and abandon me with a stranger who would ultimately love me more than she ever loved me.

And that’s really where I wanted to go not the depressing statistics of my birth. But growing up Venatori. We didn’t have a normal childhood like the other kids in New York City. Our lives revolved around learning and hunting, and keeping secrets. We were taught how to blend in with humans, but no one really ever masters the art form of being human. I don’t know a single Venatori who can blend in with the crowd. There is always something different about us — even me.

But I do it better than most.

Dorian, the man my mother left me with when I was 5. He got sick of me being around all the time. So he devised a plan to make me learn things in the big wide world of New York City. Unlike my peers who were directed to stay with in Venatori compounds. I wouldn’t have anyway, as I was notorious for sneaking out.

But Dorian sent me to dance instructors. He sent me to a master chef who taught me how to cook. Dorian took me too human doctors to ensure my extra ciriculars were taken care of and sowed the fear of transmission of diseases and pregnancy into my veins. Dorian took me to his family dinners on occasions. He taught me how to pair wine with food. Marco helped with that too, but it was Dorian first who insisted I learn.

My life was anything but ordinary.

I have stories to tell. But none of them really have a plot or a point. If you are interested in hearing these childhood stories — though I will admit some of them aren’t suitable for work — I would love to share. Just let me know. You might get a few here and there. But we’ll see.